A sacral linen tunic he shall wear and linen breeches shall be on his body and with a linen sash he shall gird himself and a linen turban he shall don. Rabbi Benamozegh delves into the origins and symbolism of the “sacral linen tunic” worn during religious rites. He begins by addressing the identification of “bad” (בד), traditionally interpreted as ‘flax’ or ‘linen’. This leads to a discussion of the attire of Egyptian priests, who were also known to wear linen garments, referred to as ‘linigeri’ (Latin for ‘linen-clad’) by ancient scribes. He describes how linen has royal connotations in ancient Greek society too, often associated with nobility and divinity. This comparison underscores a broader point: the universality of certain religious symbols and practices across different cultures, which he calls a general principle of Kabbalah. Rabbi Benamozegh emphasises the importance of not being astonished by these cultural similarities, suggesting that such comparisons are crucial to understanding the principles underlying religious practices and their investigation. He argues that these connections between different cultures bridge wisdom and faith, creating “peace in the heavens”.

The Rabbi further explores the symbolic significance of garments in various ancient cultures. He notes that ancient Greek performers of poetry (rhapsodists) would wear specific colours during their recitations to symbolise different themes: blue for narrating the sea voyages in Homer’s Odyssey and red for the tales of bloodshed in the Iliad. This practice of using attire to symbolise and indicate the nature of service is also found in Jewish tradition, where the priestly garments are imbued with symbols and hints. Rabbi Benamozegh shows that this practice of using attire as a narrative tool is paralleled in Jewish tradition, with prophets like Yeshayahu, Yeḥezkel, and Hoshe’a adopting symbolic actions or appearances to convey deeper messages and directs us to study another of his works entitled Storia degli Esseni, (‘History of the Essenes’). The commentary further explores the etymology of ‘linen’ and its royal connotations, tracing back to ancient Greek and Egyptian traditions. He suggests that the term ‘ḥorai’, used in Sefer Yeshayahu, refers to linen, and thus Ḥur, son of Miriam, could be based on an Egyptian loanword or translated idea, meaning ‘proper’ and ‘important’, based on the linen-clad priests. Rabbi Benamozegh then anonymously cites one writer, who claims that the name ‘Athens’ was bestowed upon that city by Egyptians, to refer to the linen worn by their dignitaries. He supports this by referencing the verse in Mishle which mentions “dyed Egyptian linen [Heb. eiṭun],” with ‘eiṭun’ an Egyptian loanword from ‘idmy’. He then notes how Athens is protected by the goddess Athena, whose Kabbalistic root is in the sefira of malkhut (associated with femininity and royalty), as is the root of her parallels in Egyptian, Sidonian and Indian mythology. It is no coincidence, then, that the material of linen hints to the sefira of malkhut. This exploration reveals a profound connection between language, material culture, and religious thought. Rabbi Benamozegh ultimately argues that these allegories are deeply rooted in Jewish tradition, stretching back to Moshe and influenced by the customs and teachings of ancient Egypt. Moving from material culture to linguistic symbolism, Rabbi Benamozegh examines how names and terms in the Tanakh can serve as symbols or signs. For instance, the term ‘yobel’ (Jubilee year) not only refers to the ram’s horn blown during it but also signifies concepts of return and repentance (see below, 23:24). He points out that Ḥazal extended this interpretation by associating the shofar blown on Rosh Hashanah with improving your deeds before God. A similar idea is present in the Talmud’s assertion of the validity of the simanim, eating ‘symbolic’ foods on Rosh Hashanah, based on linguistic similarities. However, Rabbi Benamozegh observes how quick people are to dismiss this kind of symbolism, despite the fact that it is to be found even in the prophets. He discusses how Yirmiyahu’s act of breaking a potter’s jug (a ‘baqbuq’) in front of the elders and senior priests, as commanded by God, serves as a vivid metaphor for destruction (in Hebrew, ‘ubaqoti’) and divine judgement. According to Rabbi Benamozegh, this is true even though the actual etymology of baqbuq has nothing to do with splitting open or destruction, but rather is an onomatopoeia of the sound a liquid makes as it is poured out of a baqbuq. This allegorical approach is consistent with other prophetic visions, such as Amos’ vision of a basket of summer fruit (qayiṣ) symbolising the end (qeṣ) of Israel, again despite their being no etymological link between the two.

Rabbi Benamozegh’s commentary also includes an analysis of Egyptian hieroglyphics, noting that an eye (‘i̓rt’) was used to symbolise action or behaviour due to its phonetic similarity to the Egyptian word for ‘to do’ (‘i̓ri̓’). This method of symbolism, he argues, is akin to the allegorical interpretations in our tradition. He sources this from the Museum of Turin’s Illustrated Catalogue of Egyptian Monuments, written by the 19th century Pietro Camillo Orcurti. Further, he notes that in Arabic, the verb “to say” (qal) originates from the word for “voice” (al-qawl), highlighting a more direct, literal derivation. This is true for the above-mentioned example in Egyptian, where the word i̓ri̓ lent itself to the verb meaning ‘to see’, again a literal derivation. He contrasts this with the more profound connection in Israelite and symbolism, where names and characteristics often have deeper, interconnected meanings. He also touches upon the Greek language, where the soul is compared to a butterfly, not for their similarity but because of the shared name (‘psichi’). However, Rabbi Benamozegh thinks that there is a greater connection than simply a shared name. He points to the 14th century writer Dante, whom he calls “the great Italian poet”, who referred to human beings as ‘angelica farfalla’, ‘angelic butterflies’, in his Purgatorio. In point of fact, citing Orcurti, he considers these kinds of connections between words to be either due to phonetic similarity (as in Egyptian i̓ri̓ meaning ‘to do’ being written with the symbol for an eye), or due to conceptual similarity. However, as Orcurti further writes, the phonetic similarities, in his mind, ultimately derive from a shared original source. As an example of this second connection, he explains that the Hebrew word for almond (‘shaqed’) is not just connected to, but ultimately derived from its rapid maturation, symbolising swiftness (‘shoqed’). Similarly, the Hebrew word for summer, ‘qayiṣ’ is thought to be derived from ‘qeṣ’ meaning ‘end’, symbolising the culmination of the year. Ultimately, Rabbi Benamozegh concludes that each word must be assessed independently; the words for some items derive from the nature of that item, while some items lend their word to describe other things of a similar nature to that item.

And Aharon shall bring forward the offense-offering bull which is his and atone for himself and for his household Rabbi Benamozegh takes this opportunity to focus on the High Priest (Kohen Gadol). He notes that Ḥazal traditionally held the view that the High Priest should be married to only one wife. This perspective is further elucidated through historical references. Rabbi Benamozegh mentions Souda, the 10th century encyclopaedia of the ancient Mediterranean world, which highlights that among the Egyptian laws there was a specific prohibition against polygamy for certain individuals. Furthermore, he cites the 1st century ancient Greek historian Diodorus, who specifies that this restriction of marrying only one woman was specifically applicable to priests. He refers the reader to English historian Sharon Turner’s work, Sacred History of the World.

And he shall put lots on the two goats, one for YHWH and one for Azazel. Rabbi Benamozegh’s commentary delves into the multifaceted interpretations of the term עזאזל and its implications in Jewish theology and history. He begins by resolutely asserting that ‘Azazel’ is unequivocally the name of an evil angelic being, a point he considers indisputable. In contrast, he notes that Shadal suggests that while ‘Azazel’ did indeed originally refer to an evil demon in various cultures, its meaning was adopted by the Israelites to become a metaphor or embodiment for calamity, evil, or destruction, and its original meaning was erased (this is known as semantic bleaching). This transformation can be likened to the modern expression, “What the devil is going on?”, which does not imply a belief in a devil’s involvement but rather signals the recognition of a negative event. Rabbi Benamozegh challenges Shadal’s interpretation by pointing out that the term ‘Azazel’ is never used elsewhere in the Torah to simply mean ‘bad’ or ‘calamity’. Its exclusive appearance in our verse, specifically in the context of a goat offered to God, is enough for Rabbi Benamozegh to deduce that the goat designated for ‘Azazel’ is considered a pure offering (‘qorban tahor’) commanded by God, for the sake of God. In essence, Rabbi Benamozegh proposes that this offering to ‘Azazel’ aligns with God’s will. He presents a fascinating juxtaposition from Shemot 34:20, which features the ritual of the redemption of the firstborn donkey by either beheading it (arifa) or redeeming it with a sheep. In both cases, the redemption of the firstborn donkey is an impure offering (qorban tame), used for the purpose of purification and sanctification. Rabbi Benamozegh notes that the choice of beheading over traditional slaughter (sheḥita) should not be surprising to the reader. After all, there are Temple practices where birds are killed through a form of beheading (meliqa) for the purpose of atonement (kappara), as well as the ritual of the ‘egla arufa’, whereby elders of a town decapitate a female cow to atone for an unsolved murder. Rabbi Benamozegh then raises critical questions about the unique use of the name ‘Azazel’ in the context of the Yom Kippur ritual. He thinks that there are two main problems with Shadal’s interpretation. The first is that were this term to be a general one meaning ‘calamity’, one would expect to see it at least once elsewhere in Tanakh with this meaning. The second problem is that if this word is to be used only once, then the worst place to use it would be the one place where there may actually be potential confusion regarding its original meaning! Addressing Rabbi Naftali Wessely’s interpretation of Azazel as ‘az azal’ (a combination of ‘azah’ meaning ‘strong’, and ‘zal’ meaning ‘to go’), Rabbi Benamozegh finds this explanation to be far-fetched. Rabbi Wessely had suggested that the term symbolised a ‘strong spirit’ and alluded to a mighty wind that would cast the goat off a mountain, leading to its death. Rabbi Benamozegh criticises this interpretation for its lack of grounding in traditional Jewish exegesis and for straying into the realm of speculative and unusual explanations.

He then delves into the broader implications of the term ‘Azazel’ in Hebrew, arguing that if it merely meant ‘evil’, it would not be used in the phrase “to send to Azazel in the wilderness” as the Hebrew language does not typically construct phrases in this manner. Rabbi Benamozegh links the idea of the ‘Azazel’ to Egypt. He presents a derasha of our Sages in which there is a star (meaning some natural force of some kind) that is called ra’a (evil). This is what is meant when the verse says that רעה נגד פניכם, “ra’a is in front of you”, when the Israelites left Egypt. Now, to the Egyptians, it looked like God himself was punishing them and bringing about these bad punishments. Rabbi Benamozegh directs us to the Greek god Typhon, who was the force of natural disasters, and who was later linked to the Egyptian god ‘Set’, who was god of the desert. He sees from this that the Egyptians thought that a God that brings about natural disasters and then brings his people to the desert, must be this evil god! Hence the verse, למה יאמרו מצרים לאמר ברעה הוציאם להרוג אותם בהרים, “why should the Egyptians say, ‘as ra’a/evil (Typhon/Set) he brought them out.’” The discussion expands to the connection between ‘Azazel’ and early Christian sects, like Marcion and his followers, who viewed the God of the Torah, in their eyes the ‘Old’ Testament, as an evil god (or vengeful demiurge). Rabbi Benamozegh suggests that the Talmudic teaching of Rabbi Ḥananya ben Ạqashya, which speaks of God’s desire to merit Israel through having many commandments, counters this negative portrayal of the Torah. Rabbi Ḥananya ben Ạqashya’s source is a verse which reads למען צדקו, “[God desires] for their righteousness”, which Rabbi Benamozegh interprets not as righteousness, but as justification/salvation. This salvation and ultimate justification are achieved through the numerous commandments, not through faith (in Jesus). Returning to the subject of ‘Azazel’, Rabbi Benamozegh compares the ‘Azazel’ goat with the two birds used in the cleansing ritual for lepers. One bird is sacrificed in the Temple, and the other is released over the field, a practice he sees as analogous to the sending of the ‘Azazel’ goat to the wilderness, although the name ‘Azazel’ is not explicitly mentioned in the bird ritual.

Rabbi Benamozegh also delves into the evolution of the concept of angels in Jewish tradition. He traces this development from the times of the Patriarchs, where angels were acknowledged but their names were not revealed, through Moshe, who introduced the name ‘Azazel’, and onto later prophets like Yeshayahu and Daniel, who provided more details and names of angels. This progression, according to Rabbi Benamozegh, reflects a shift from the ancients’ preference for concealment and mystery to a later trend towards explicitness and revelation.

Revisiting the subject of the firstborn donkey, Rabbi Benamozegh observes that the animal of the Egyptian god ‘Set’ is the donkey. He then links ‘Set’ to ‘Satan’ and notes how the Kabbalists consider the donkey to be on the lowest level of tum’a (which incidentally indicates, to Rabbi Benamozegh, that Kabbalah was developing even as the Israelites were in Ancient Egypt). He goes on to mention the idea – present in both Jewish writers and non-Jewish writers – that the Jews are influenced by a negative star (or natural force). This star is identified with kiyyun, or remphan, as per Coptic scholars whom he cites.

And the goat shall bear upon it all their transgressions to a remote region, and he shall send off the goat to the wilderness. Rabbi Benamozegh delves into the symbolism and deeper meaning of the phrase “to a remote region” (אל־ארץ גזרה). He connects this concept with his previous writings on the topic of ‘Azazel’, emphasising the significance of the desert as a remote place of exile and spiritual desolation. Rabbi Benamozegh refers to the desert as a traditional dwelling of demons and evil spirits, a theme echoed in various religious and philosophical texts. Rabbi Benamozegh quotes the 19th century Christian philosopher Vincenzo Gioberti, who elaborates on the association of the desert with evil entities. In Della Filosofia della Rivelazione, Gioberti notes how the Biblical ‘Azazel’, ‘Asmodeus’ from the 2nd century Book of Tobit, and the demons exorcised in Christian tradition are all linked to the desert. This remote and desolate landscape is portrayed as the abode of Satan and evil spirits. The desert’s connection with Satan is further explored by Gioberti through various cultural and historical lenses. The angel who bound Tobit did so in the desert of Egypt, and in Matthew we read that Satan led Jesus into the desert, as demons seek refuge there after being exorcised. These examples further underline the desert’s symbolic role. Gioberti posits that Satan is often associated with the desert because the desert symbolises desolation and emptiness, qualities that are attributed to Satan. The commentary then shifts to a philosophical discussion, where Gioberti argues that the desert metaphorically represents a void, or a place devoid of “God’s glory and the light of reason”. This absence of divine presence and rationality renders the desert a fitting dwelling for evil spirits and demons. He then links these to the philosophical concepts of ‘mimesis’ and ‘methexis’. In Platonic terms, the term ‘mimesis’ means imitation or representation but not actually partaking of the essence. This concept is used to suggest that Satan imitates or mimics physical reality, stemming from the goodness of God, rather than embodying its true essence. In contrast, ‘methexis’, meaning participation in the essence of the Platonic forms, is used to denote actual partaking in reality, from which Satan is detached. This philosophical distinction highlights that Satan is seen as a mere imitation of reality, lacking genuine participation in the higher, more profound order of existence. Since the desert is portrayed as a remote, barren, godless place, it becomes an appropriate habitat for Satan, who is disconnected from genuine reality and divine presence. He notes that this concept of imitation is echoed in Kabbalistic teachings, where the monkey is seen as an imitator of man. Consequently, Gioberti depicts Satan as a desert-dwelling hermit, emphasising Satan’s isolation and separation.